When last we heard from our intrepid traveler, he had concocted an unbelievable plan to run a 15 kilometer race at 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday and then make a 12:50 flight for a conference in New York. Too little potassium as a child left him with no understanding of time. To him, it sounded “doable.”
He figured he could accomplish this through several time-saving techniques, like only putting on one sock before the race. He also figured that cursing ferociously during the drive to the airport could rip a hole in the space-time continuum letting him leap into the future. (He watches too many movies.)
Surprisingly, all went according to plan for the young lad. His bags packed themselves. Traffic parted as he approached. Not even the stench of a port-o-let threw him off his game.
He ran his race, and ran it fast. It was a great race — more than a minute faster than his last 15K. And there was even time for a visit to the beer tent after the race. Don’t hold that against our young protagonist.
Some run for the adrenaline rush. Others because they have something to prove. Many do it to stay in shape while others are drawn to the sport simply because they burned out all their brain cells in college and don’t realize it’s un-enjoyable.
But this man runs for a much simpler reason: because most large races have beer at the end. And the faster you run, the fewer people there are in line when you get there. (Could be he also burned out all his brain cells in college.)
He drank his victory beer, then made a dash for the car. He had time to shower at his sister-in-law’s house, and even ate a grilled chicken sandwich at the airport. He strolled casually, yet proudly — some would even say triumphantly — up to the gate.
And it was at this moment — the moment of his greatest accomplishment —that a man came on the intercom and announced that weather in New York was delaying the flight by two hours.
The cursing that ensued burst out windows and ripped a hole in the space-time continuum. Two travelers were sucked to Albuquerque.
Oh, the irony was not lost on our fair prince. He had done it. He had beaten all the odds. All the people who said he was crazy, including his own mother! She told him he was cutting it too close and — this is pretty close to a direct quote — that he was embarking on one of the most “damn-foolish things I’ve ever heard of.”
After all the planning, the packing, the plotting, the running, the driving, the showering (which wasn’t really sufficient to quiet the stink hovering about him), he had made it. Only to be stymied by the one thing out of his control — the weather.
It was like conquering the dragon, then being felled by a mushroom while walking away.
And he was felled. Not much later came another announcement — the flight was canceled.
He thought it strange how he didn’t hear the sound of the cannon firing, but clearly felt the ball as it crashed into his chest. Knocked all the air from his lungs. Crushed his confidence. Wounded his pride. Sank his spirits. Made him remember that a certain law — Murphy’s Law — ruled the universe and everything inside of it.
And he cursed himself for not seeing this coming. For not recognizing that it was all going too incredibly well not to go horribly wrongly. NOTHING in life hums along so perfectly. How could he not see the warning signs?
Booked on a 6 a.m. flight the next morning, he drove home angry and despondent, mostly at himself. At some point he thought of an old saying: “the best laid plans never survive first contact with the enemy.” He cursed that, too, but the space-time continuum didn’t open and the beer tent had long since closed.